


The Social Planner

by KhamanV



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Endgame, Gen, I'm begging you to not read this, Spoilers, Tumblr Prompt, do not open until you have viewed the movie or you don't give a rip about being spoiled, no dude seriously spoilers, this is very late in the film
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-29
Updated: 2019-04-29
Packaged: 2020-02-09 20:45:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18645790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KhamanV/pseuds/KhamanV
Summary: The universe has one chance.But to make sure it happens, you've got to get everyone in the right place, at the right time.How do you actually pull this off?Put it like this: Now you're thinking with portals.





	The Social Planner

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a tumblr prompt when I requested some, contains SPOILERS OH MY GOD SPOILERS THIS IS YOUR ABSOLUTE LAST CHANCE RUN AWAY RUN AWAY
> 
> besides, none of this short will make any sense without having a fairly clear memory of the movie. Also I wedged in some extra cameos because in my heart they were there. Except one, which is actually there, you just gotta be real quick in spotting him.

**_The Social Planner_ **

. . .

The first thought Stephen Strange had, as he felt his consciousness spark back into existence, was that the sensation of his body coalescing back into existence was _so_ goddamn weird. It was like a tickling inside his soul, the sort of tickle where it feels like it’s in your mouth somewhere, so you start rasping your tongue along the upper roof of your mouth, but that’s not _quite_ doing it for you, and the tickle is actually somewhere in an untouchable sub-dermal layer, so you just sort of have to suffer until you drink some warm water or eat a french fry or something.

Only this particular sort of itchiness was in the still hyper-aware, magically flickering layer of his soul/consciousness/ether, which was one of those high concept wizard things he couldn’t explain to anyone except Wong, who would give him a bland look that said ‘ _Stephen, every wizard has felt that,_ ’ and that would be the end of that conversation.

The second thought, as Strange opened his eyes and saw that the kid, Peter, had reformed a good half-minute before he had and was now staggering around, stricken and confused, was _oh good, I didn’t come back alone somehow. On the right path so far_.

The third thought was, as the green man came back with a gasp, and the idiot, Quill, somehow didn’t start screaming, and the girl with the bug-bits clapped her hands to her reformed face: _You know, having the Time Stone back would make this part a hell of a lot easier_.

. . .

Stephen put his hand out before the trio started screaming at him with their expected, entirely understandable questions. The look on his face demanded silence, and he got it, mostly because they were still angry and confused. It was the anger he counted on, and it would continue to stoke while he took a minute to mentally flick through the plan. He kept his hand up as he said, “I will tell you what I can, and I will tell you what we have to do now. Give me thirty seconds of silence.”

“I will give you Thanos’s skull!” roared Drax. He looked at Quill, who was giving him a look. His next words were calmer. “I feel better.”

“Yeah, man. I’m with ya.”

“Thirty seconds,” said Strange, and he didn’t wait for a response as he slipped his consciousness into the ether, that invisible touch of magic that wove throughout existence.

. . .

Of the fourteen million or so futures Strange witnessed, about five hundred thousand had gotten this far. That alone was a testament to human will and human durability - and, in many of those, including this, one curiously determined storage-facility rat. He had questions about that rat, but then again, it was a rat, and _probably_ not some other nameless sorcerer with an idea about the odds the universe faced, and it’s not like Strange was looking for the works of Shakespeare via simian typists in this mess of causality and probability. Just a rat. Yeah.

But more importantly, it meant that Strange had run through this routine a hell of a lot of times. Somehow, doing it for real, made what he needed to do feel electric, even anxiety-inducing, but he also slipped into the necessary spells and said the necessary things like they were a pair of slippers a decade old.

Bright-fire shards of himself slipped into the web of magic that connected hundreds of his fellow sorcerers on Earth, flickering into their vision, standing before them with his hand up and his head lifted in command. Pieces of him scattering across London, Hong Kong, New York, whispering tentatively across the skin of shamans and witches across the world who might, at other times, not be allies of the Sanctum-keepers but who right now had much higher priorities. Echoes flickering along the trails of space, looking for the familiar, the places where the not-raccoon had been, where Danvers was, stretching, spreading, his soul pushing at the limit of replicative sundering, all to say the right words.

It was not the same speech in every ear, which made the spell even more exhausting, but in many of them, it began like this:

“This is Stephen Strange, Sorcerer Supreme, guardian of the New York Sanctum-“

And in New York City, Wong interrupted the sending as a handful of other acolytes looked at him with waiting expressions. Wong smiled at Stephen, a thing that had happened in only ten of those futures. Including the one. That almost impossible, perfect, painful one. “I know. _We_ know. I’ve got Wakanda, Stephen. Don’t break your connection with us just yet.”

The vision fell into silence, this piece of Stephen only looking at his mentor and friend, knowing but not understanding. It was one thing to see, and another to feel.

Elsewhere Strange continued to speak to strangers, and to space pirates, including those Ravagers, his words echoing out of the mouth of a glimmeringly silver alien, repeated to an aging but hard-faced man who looked, curiously, hilariously, like Rocky Balboa.

. . .

“You’ve felt the change,” said Stephen through that mouth, through other mouths, whispering into countless ears, feeling his physical body straining into real pain. “A minute ago you were in the past, facing the end of everything we ever knew. Now we are in a future hard forged with a new hope. But to win it, to _keep_ it, to grow it into our new lives, we’re going to have to fight for it. A minute ago you were frightened and angry. _Now_ , I need you to hold onto that anger, and come through with me to where you’re needed most. You’ve never traveled like this before, and I warn you, you’re coming for the fight of all our lives.”

. . .

“We’re ready,” said not-Rocky Balboa, with the same Philly-style accent and similarly damaged voice. He sat like a king in a captain’s chair and beckoned to his comms chief, ensuring combat readiness across the scattered Ravager fleet.

“We’re ready,” said a man named Kraglin in a different chair, thousands of light-years away. Absurdly, a bipedal duck stood nearby.

“I’m ready,” said Carol Danvers, illuminated from behind by the white dwarf sun of the world she’d been working to help.

“We are prepared,” said Irani Rael to the vision, this platinum-haired commander of the Nova Corp, resplendent in her blue uniform. The console was alive with dozens of remaining ships checking in, weapons hot.

The Valkyrie, Brunnhilde, was already in full armor and the stable was alive with the whinnying of the pegasus cavalry. “New Asgard is ready,” she said to Strange’s vision, turning away from him to stow a second sword at the saddle, to place her knives, to ensure the clasps on the functional but beautiful saddle were right. “Just send us through.”

“Got it!”

“We’re there!”

“Hell yeah!”

All this and more, cries across every world the spirits of the defenders had touched.

From behind, around, through Wong, the rising Xhosa chant, alive and vibrant, thrilling its way through all the shards of Strange’s spirit, “Yibambe! Yibambe! _Yibambe_!”

“Strange,” said Wong, pulling him into a focused point. Strange had given his small, important speech, and now he was mentally readying the portals each of his pieces needed to spin alive. “Hear me, old friend. Hear _us_ , the way we heard you.”

Strange listened.

. . .

What poured from the Sanctums and their keepers were not words as the ear or the mind understood them. The heart knew, and the soul knew better, and the lyric of magic poured into Stephen, that selfless _sharing_ that sorcerers could only grant when they trusted another to the edge of death and beyond. Strange had no choice but to tear himself open to send all those messages, and his hands shook at the effort he carried alone - and now he was no long alone, the power spilled into him, _through_ him, everything his fellow sorcerers could share with him, all of it _alive_ and singing with words of gratitude and sacrifice, the joy of being alive, the awareness that tomorrow had been given back to them if they only had the courage to stand for it, and that courage spilled into light-

 _Light_!

It shimmered through Strange!

He had never felt so alive and aware, the birthing scream of a child, victory triumphant, life, life and the potential for more!

Under it the whisper of those that had gone before, tremulous memories, the breath of ancients, and those too filled him, the reminder of death and what it could pay for, last chances, new futures…

He was too full, and his hands spun as he had trained them. The portals began to spark into being and they felt like a dance, each one as alive and full as he, and across the universe, all this life, knowing what it was to survive, began to surge towards the other side, ready for war, ready to live again, ready to save others the way they had been saved.

. . .

“Strange?” It was Peter. “It’s been, like, two minutes. And you’re, uh, you’re glowing, uh, sir.”

Strange felt pieces of him collapse back into himself, empty and full all at once, and he felt the magic still pulsing under his skin. He patted Peter on his shoulder, that one touch filling him with the sound of the boy’s quick heartbeat so loud it almost distracted him. And he knew what he had to say, knowing what it meant, knowing how it had to end. “Tony needs you, Peter. He needs us all.”

Something changed on Peter’s face, youthful determination becoming something even stronger. The mask began to ripple back into place, those white eyes staring blankly, yet feeling earnest and ready. “I’m ready.”

“I know,” said Strange, and that was all he said.

“Come on, man, we gonna kick ass or what?” Quill pushed forward, a hand slapping at the helm activator at his neck. His now mechanical eyes gleamed red.

“Ass kick! Ass kick! Ass kick!” Never without joy for long, Mantis resumed bouncing up and down. Then she gave Strange her best war face, which pretty much looked like that one awkwardly teeth-gritting emoji, only more pitiful, and even gentle, somehow, and Strange knew she was one of the most kind-hearted people he was ever going to meet.

Drax’s knives were in his hands. Muscles rippled across his arms, disturbing but also full of very real threat. All he did was stare. It was all he needed to do.

And the portal, this last portal began to flow out of Strange like a warrior’s hymnal, liquid fire thrumming with intent.

. . .

It was the _one_ , that near-impossible future of beauty and glory and sacrifice. All of it sundering the sky, all of it feeling as if it were new to Strange, a war that lasted minutes and felt like centuries, all as the gift of magic continued to surge through him as he did what must be done.

And as the sun set on a joyful universe, Strange hung back from the crowd, watching as the one chance he’d pinned all his hopes on dissolve at last, accomplished, victorious, and the dust of that painful past forming itself into a tomorrow even he could never predict.

. . .

_~Fin_

_. . ._

_Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow_ … ~ Macbeth

2019, all rights to Marvel


End file.
